Chapter Text
By the time Alina drags her second suitcase out of the dorm building and onto the cracked pavement, the late afternoon sun already feels like a personal betrayal, warm and mocking against the back of her neck. She pauses to catch her breath, one hand pressed to the small of her back where a dull ache has started to bloom, and stares at the chaotic little mountain of her belongings with something that hovers between exhaustion and mild despair. Two oversized suitcases, a bulging duffel bag that refuses to zip all the way, a tote slung over one shoulder that is currently cutting off circulation to her arm, and a rolled-up rug tucked awkwardly under the other arm like some sad, unwieldy trophy from a thrift-store raid. The rug keeps threatening to unroll and trip her every time she shifts her weight.
Moving out had sounded so thrilling when the housing email arrived at the end of first year, all crisp fonts and official language promising freedom, privacy, no more shared bathrooms haunted by mysterious midnight noises. She had pictured herself as some independent artist type, painting at dawn with the city waking up outside her window, maybe even hosting the occasional low-key gathering where people admire her latest canvas and ask thoughtful questions about pigments and compositions.
Now, standing here sweating in yesterday’s hoodie with her hair sticking to her forehead, she reconsiders every life decision that has led her to this exact moment.
“Maybe I should’ve just stayed in the dorm bathroom,” she mutters to herself, pushing a strand of dark hair out of her eyes with the back of her wrist. “At least the mildew had character.”
She pulls out her phone, the screen already smudged with fingerprints, and opens the taxi app. Her thumb hovers over the standard economy option, the one that would probably send a dented sedan with a driver who smells like old cigarettes and plays talk radio at full volume. The flat she has rented is not exactly close to campus, and she has… a lot of things. It is not enough to justify a full moving truck, which would have eaten what little remains of her scholarship stipend for the month, but definitely too much to haul across town alone without risking a public meltdown or a pulled muscle that would sideline her for the first week of classes.
She sighs, the sound heavy with reluctant acceptance, and taps the Luxe upgrade instead. The price jumps on the screen, and she winces, whispering a silent apology to her already-anemic bank account. “Fine. Just this once. You deserve a little dignity on moving day, Lin.”
The app pings its confirmation almost immediately. She sinks down onto the largest suitcase, the hard plastic edge digging into the backs of her thighs, and waits, occasionally adjusting the tote strap that is now leaving a permanent groove in her shoulder. The campus quad stretches out behind her, familiar and suddenly distant, filled with the distant laughter of first-years who still have the luxury of not worrying about rent or leaky faucets or whether their new landlord will actually fix the window that rattles in the wind.
When the notification that says Your driver is arriving finally pops up, Alina stands up too quickly. Her legs protest at the action, but she just cranes her neck toward the street. The car that glides to a smooth stop at the curb is nothing like the economy rides she usually orders. It is a black Mercedes-Benz GLS, sleek and imposing, its paint catching the dull afternoon light like polished obsidian. The three-pointed star emblem on the hood gleams with quiet arrogance, and Alina blinks hard, wondering for a fleeting second if she has accidentally selected the wrong tier or if the app has glitched and sent her someone else’s ride.
“…Oh,” she breathes, the single syllable carrying equal parts awe and panic.
The driver’s door opens with a soft, expensive click.
And then things get infinitely worse.
Because the man who steps out looks like he has wandered straight out of a luxury lifestyle campaign, not the front seat of a taxi. He is tall, with artfully scruffy golden hair that catches the light in effortless golden waves, the kind that suggests he has either just stepped off a sailboat or paid a very talented stylist to make it look that way. His white button-down is rolled neatly to the elbows, revealing forearms that speak of casual strength rather than gym obsession, and his posture carries the easy confidence of someone who has never once doubted that the world will rearrange itself to suit him. Dark jeans, polished shoes, and a smile that curves slow and bright across his face as his gaze lands on her.
He spots her immediately, that smile deepening into something warm and disarmingly genuine, and walks toward her with long unhurried strides.
“You must be Alina Starkov,” he says, his voice low and smooth, carrying just a hint of something playful at the edges, like laughter is always waiting one breath away for him.
She nods, still processing the sheer unfairness of his existence. “Yes. That’s… me.”
His eyes—and of course he has 'golden hour' eyes, that precise moment where the green of the trees meets the dying heat of the sun—flick over the pile of her belongings, one eyebrow lifting in quiet amusement. “Moving day, I take it?”
“Something like that,” she answers, suddenly hyper-aware of the scuffed toes of her sneakers and the faint paint stain on the cuff of her hoodie. “They kick us out of the dorms after first year. Barbaric, right?”
“Utterly barbaric,” he agrees, the sympathy in his tone so sincere it almost makes her laugh. After gaining her permission in the form of a nod, he reaches for the heaviest suitcase and her duffel bag, lifting them as though they contain nothing more substantial than a few sketchbooks. “Allow me. I’d hate for you to start your new chapter with a hernia.”
Before she can protest—or even form a coherent sentence—he is already striding toward the back of the car, the suitcase rolling effortlessly beside him. Alina follows awkwardly, clutching her tote, her smaller suitcase, and the rolled rug like they might bolt if she lets go, her cheeks warming with a mix of gratitude and embarrassment.
When he pops the boot, she stops short.
Inside the cavernous space sits a set of pristine golf clubs, their polished heads nestled in a leather bag that probably costs more than her entire wardrobe. Beside them lies an expensive pair of limited-edition sports shoes that are neatly aligned, and a folded jacket in a fabric so fine it looks like it might melt under direct sunlight. The faint scent of cedar and something crisp, like expensive cologne mixed with fresh air, drifts out.
She feels a sudden, ridiculous wave of embarrassment wash over her as she hefts her own scuffed suitcase into the boot beside all that quiet wealth. Her things look like they have been dragged through a battlefield of student life—faded canvas, frayed straps, the faint smell of acrylics and cheap laundry detergent—while his look like they belong to someone who spends weekends on private greens and never once worries about the price of a coffee.
He does not seem to notice, though. Or if he does, he simply does not care. “There we go,” he says cheerfully, rearranging her bags with careful precision so they will not shift during the drive. “Everything is secure. You travel light for a moving day, or is this just the first wave?”
“First wave. The rest of my chaos is waiting in a storage unit I’m pretending does not exist until I can afford it.”
He gives her a small laugh as she climbs into the backseat, the leather cool and butter-soft beneath her, the interior smelling faintly of that same cedar-and-spice scent. She sits carefully, as though she might leave fingerprints on something irreplaceable. Then the car pulls away from the curb with a smooth, powerful glide that makes her stomach do a tiny, involuntary flip. He glances at her in the rear-view mirror, that easy smile still playing on his lips.
“So,” he says after a comfortable beat of silence, the city beginning to slide past the tinted windows, “second year. What are you studying? Let me guess—something creative?”
“Art,” she answers. “Painting, mostly. Some drawing and mixed media when the inspiration hits like a freight train.”
“Ah,” he murmurs, the sound warm with genuine interest. “A noble pursuit. The kind that makes the world a little more beautiful and a lot more honest.”
She huffs a soft laugh, leaning back against the seat despite herself. “My parents would not agree. They still send me articles about ‘stable careers’ every other week. You know, the ones with spreadsheets and retirement plans.”
He chuckles, the sound low and rich, filling the quiet space between them. “They rarely do agree, do they? Parents have a remarkable talent for underestimating how valuable passion actually is.” He pauses, then adds lightly, “Any particular style you’re drawn to, or are you still experimenting with everything the professors throw at you?”
The conversation unfolds from there like a thread she has not realised she is holding, easy and unforced. He asks about her classes—whether she prefers figure drawing or still life, if she has a favourite professor—and she finds herself answering more openly than she usually does with strangers. She tells him about the time she accidentally mixed the wrong pigments and ended up with a canvas that looked like a crime scene at sunset, and he laughs so genuinely that it loosens something tight in her chest.
In return, she asks about him. “What about you? Driving Luxe cars full-time, or is this just a side gig?”
He hums thoughtfully, eyes on the road but his tone is still warm. “Software, usually. Among other things. I’m a builder at heart. I like taking a mess of messy data or a broken process and finding the elegant solution hidden inside it. It’s about building the framework that lets everything else function.”
“Software,” she echoes, a little surprised. He does not look like he spends ten hours a day hunched over a monitor and gets his fuel only by caffeine and existential dread, but then again, nothing about him fits neatly into any box she can imagine. “That sounds… calculated. Intense.”
“It can be,” he admits, glancing at her in the mirror again with a spark of mischief. “But I’ve found the best parts are the ones you don’t see coming. The happy accidents. Kind of like art, I suppose.”
By the time the Mercedes glides to a stop in front of her new building, a modest brick walk-up with a slightly crooked sign and windows that promise character in the form of creaky floors and questionable plumbing, Alina realises she has almost forgotten this is technically a paid ride.
He parks with effortless precision and is out of the car before she can even reach for the door handle.
“You don’t have to—” she starts, but he is already at the boot, pulling her bags out with the same casual strength as before.
“It is fine,” he says, flashing that bright, disarming smile over his shoulder. “I’d feel guilty leaving you to wrestle these upstairs alone. Besides, I’ve got a soft spot for dramatic entrances. Or exits, in this case.”
He carries two suitcases and the duffel bag at once, balancing them like they are weightless, while Alina trails behind with the tote and rug, her heart beating a little faster than the two flights of stairs warrant. When they reach her flat on the second floor, she fumbles with the key, the lock sticking just enough to make her curse under her breath before it finally gives way.
She steps aside, gesturing awkwardly into the small, sunlit space. “Just… here. Anywhere is fine, really. It is not much, but it is mine.”
He sets the bags down gently in the middle of the empty living area, dusting his hands lightly as he looks around with mild, appreciative interest. The flat is frankly modest. It has peeling paint in one corner, a kitchenette that has seen better decades, and a single window that lets in a generous slice of afternoon light. But the way the sun paints the bare floors makes it feel almost hopeful.
“Nice place,” he says, and the sincerity in his voice makes her believe he means it. “Plenty of light for painting, I’d wager. You’ll do good things here, Alina.”
“Thanks,” she replies, suddenly shy again, fingers twisting the strap of her tote. The silence stretches for half a second, and her mind races to the inevitable question of tipping. Should she tip him? But judging from his appearance, his car, and those fancy stuff at the boot of his car, it seems like she is the one who needs the money more. Not to mention that her wallet feels painfully thin in her back pocket now since she has budgeted every dollar until the next deposit and the Luxe fare has already taken a bite she cannot really afford to enlarge.
She is still debating how to phrase the classic ‘I really appreciate the help, but…’ when he seems to read the hesitation on her face like an open sketchbook.
“No need to tip,” he says quickly, raising a hand with that easy grin. “You already upgraded to Luxe. That is more than enough on a moving day like this.”
“Oh,” she breathes, the relief flooding through her so sharply it leaves her cheeks warm. “Thank you. Really.”
He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a small scrap of paper and a pen, and scribbles something quickly before folding it once and pressing it into her hand. His fingers are warm against hers for the briefest moment. “If you ever need help moving again—another suitcase, a piece of furniture that refuses to fit through the door, or just someone to complain to about the leaky tap I’m sure is waiting in the bathroom—call me. No app, no surge pricing. Just say the word.”
She blinks down at the paper, at the neat handwriting and the simple string of numbers staring back at her. “Okay. I… yeah. Thank you.”
He smiles once more, the expression softer this time, almost private, then steps back toward the door. “Good luck with second year, Alina.”
And then he is gone, boots quiet on the stairs, the faint scent of cedar and spice lingering in the air like an afterthought.
Alina stands there for a long moment, staring at the closed door with the scrap of paper still warm in her palm. “…That was weird,” she murmurs to the empty flat, though the word does not quite capture the strange flutter in her chest.
She spends the next hour unpacking in a haze of exhaustion and quiet satisfaction. She places her stack of sketchbooks on the narrow shelf by the window, folds clothes into the single dresser that smells faintly of mothballs, and sets up her tiny electric kettle in the kitchenette like it is the most important ritual of the day. Eventually, her stomach growls loud enough to remind her she has not eaten since breakfast, and she collapses onto the sagging couch that has come with the flat, pulling out her phone to order some food.
Since her food delivery is still ten minutes away, she decides to open the taxi app to give a five-star rating to that rich driver.
She taps the driver’s profile.
Name: Nikolai Opjer.
She frowns, the name tugging at some distant corner of her memory like a half-remembered melody. Curiosity tugs harder. She switches to her browser, types the name in, and waits as the results load.
Her eyes widen.
Article after article fills the screen, headlines bold and impossible to ignore. Young entrepreneur. Visionary CEO. Founder and driving force behind Vyshe Rides—the very app she has just used, the one that has quietly revolutionised ride-sharing across the country in a handful of years. Numerous photos of him in tailored suits at industry galas with the same confident smile and the same golden hair. Tons of interviews where he speaks about innovation and accessibility with the same effortless charm he has shown her while carrying her suitcases up two flights of stairs.
Her mouth falls open in a soft, stunned exhale. “…What?”
She taps another article, then another. There he is again—same man, same warm eyes, now standing in front of a sleek headquarters or shaking hands with people whose names she briefly recognises from business news. Nikolai Opjer. The man is not just a driver. He is the CEO. The one who has built the entire company from what the articles call “a late-night idea in a garage” into a multi-billion-dollar empire.
Alina stares at her phone, stunned into a sudden stillness.
Why would the CEO of the entire taxi service personally take her Luxe order on a random Tuesday afternoon?
Why help her carry every last bag upstairs, rearrange his golf clubs without a single complaint, and talk to her like she is the most interesting passenger he has ever driven? Why give her his private number and look at her leaking-tap flat like it is a place worth remembering?
Her phone buzzes sharply on the couch cushion, notifying her that her food has arrived, but Alina barely notices. Her gaze is now fixed on the scrap of paper where the driver had written his number on, the ink slightly smudged from the warmth of her fingers.
Nikolai Opjer.
She does not know why he has taken her order.
She definitely does not know why he has given her his number.
But she has a strange, insistent feeling settling deep in her chest, warm and electric and impossible to ignore…
This will not be the last time she sees him.